There we were, a couple of old friends meeting for breakfast on North Lincoln Avenue in Chicago at the Bakin’ & Eggs, a trendy neighborhood hot spot not far from the Kabbalah Center, The Peace School, the Church of Scientology, a mixed-martial arts storefront and an Army/Navy surplus store, just in case a person needed something to do that day, a focus, a starting point.

There we were, all silver-headed and silver-tongued, discussing dental implants, fishing for our glasses to read the menu, wondering when and how the inglorious and unglamorous word “done” could have entered our lexicon so totally and completely, debating between the triple-berry pancakes, the carmelized onion frittata and the cheese grits. (Yes, they have grits up north.)

There we were, complaining about our new smartphones, our iPhones. Talk about trendy. Talk about feeling not so smart.

I wanted to talk about how much has changed in Chicago. The Wrigley Building, a sparkling white jewel with that distinctive clock tower and wedding cake flavor, still stands on North Michigan Avenue, but I had to search a skyline of steel and glass high-rises to find it. The Prudential Building, a big box of a building (not my favorite but a trusty landmark on Randolph Street), also stands dwarfed by much taller and better-built brothers and sisters. The library, where I used to read on the fourth floor under the Tiffany-designed dome, escaped the proverbial wrecking ball and has morphed into a cultural center.

In the plaza of the Chicago Tribune building and in the presence of the ground-level WGN Radio broadcast booth, an energetic 26-foot-tall statue of Marilyn Monroe, her skirt flying high above her head the way it did in the movie “The Seven Year Itch,” amazes and amuses Chicago’s vigorous tourist industry, also new.

Some things don’t change. It’s still easy to get lost on Lower Wacker, a street under streets that still boasts the Billy Goat tavern, a favorite hangout for journalists of old (including Mike Royko), though I never did find the third level known as Lower Lower Wacker or the Lowest Wacker.

So there we were, my friends and I, drinking coffee, facing a flight of bacon, trying to make sense of our new iPhones.

“We’ve drunk the Kool-Aid,” I said to Nicole. “I can’t believe we did it, both of us.”

She nodded, less interested in the historical anomaly than in trying to figure out how to send a text, answer a call or transmit a photograph.

“It’s gong to cost at least $30 more a month,” I continued.

She wasn’t listening. A third friend was offering instruction. I was a step ahead. A young friend had already synced the thing to my laptop. I thought that was enough for one day or one week.

“I drove up here with a GPS in the car, a GPS on the phone, directions from Mapquest and a new AAA map,” I moaned. “This after living here for 10 years and I still got lost.”

No one was listening to me. No eye contact. Nothing.

I’m a reluctant learner.

“I’d rather learn a new language,” I protested. “Chinese, maybe.”

No one at the table cared.

It took about three days for me to realize that I am now holding a mini-computer to my head when I’m talking and that’s why it’s heavier than my antiquated flip phone I loved so much and why I have to plug it in every night because there’s only so much charge a battery, even a modern battery, can hold.

If I could only learn now to answer it. If I only had a brain.

I know that all new things come with a steep learning curve, but when does it end?

“I’m ready to throw it out the window,” I emailed a friend. “I type a few letters and it completes the words for me. Next thing I know it’ll be putting thoughts into my head.”

He had no sympathy, writing back, “I think I can … I think I can …”

“You’re going to love it,” he added. “It’ll probably take 30 days.”

I still have 13 days to decide before I can break my contract and trade it in for something more familiar.

“You’ll be devastated if you do,” an eager salesman told a friend of mine who was debating turning hers in.

Devastated? Really? Are we talking about a relationship or a phone? Wait! I forgot. It’s more than a phone.

My days with T-Mobile are probably over, though that’s not what the woman on the other end of the line chose to believe when I called to cancel my service. My contract was over years ago, so that wasn’t the point. She was just doing her doggone best to keep me in the company, in the fold. That’s her job. After I finally convinced her I was leaving and I came up with my code so she could deactivate my account, she ended the conversation — I swear; I heard it myself — by saying, “Thank you for choosing T-Mobile.”